


Thick for a Genius

by jpicker13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4489335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpicker13/pseuds/jpicker13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John's accident with a patient, Sherlock starts to discover that his feelings for John are a bit more than platonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"John" Sherlock said "Give me your phone."

He didn’t even look up from his composition; too deep in thought to spare a glance.

"Where's yours?" John asked impatiently from the armchair.

John had spent a lot of time in that armchair since his accident at work. A patient had lost it and pushed him down a flight of stairs. It should have been more prominent in his mind but the only thing that truly bothered him was the limp that resulted from a shattered knee cap. It reminded him too much of his past.

"Sherlock you can't be serious. My leg-"

"You can walk can't you?"

Sherlock spent the three days of John's time back at the flat doing things for himself. It was as close to caring for John as he'd seen.

"That's bloody ridiculous... Where is it?"

John didn't need an argument right now. He had barely been able to focus on the book in his lap, so he knew an argument was too much.

"On the kitchen table."

"That's... oh nevermind"

John pushed himself out of the armchair with considerable effort and grabbed his cane. His attempts to walk straight were pointless, and he allowed himself to falter slightly as he reached Sherlock stretched out on the couch.

"Here." He said bitterly - dropping the phone onto his chest.

"Ouch. A bit nicer next time."

"I'm going to bed."

John had said this a little too harshly, but it was too late now. He pushed his way up the stairs and sat himself down on the bed.

He had been nippy like this towards Sherlock for a while but he couldn't admit to himself why. Deep in the back of his mind the thought haunted him but there was nothing to be done now. It was two in the morning.  
Sherlock stored John’s harshness in the back of his mind so that he could focus on the task at hand. Moriarty was back, and he needed to alert the homeless network. Maybe they could give him some information on where Moriarty was hiding out.

And anyway, John was a grown man - and a proud one at that - asking what’s wrong would only make him revert back into himself. Sherlock had more to worry about than John’s feelings.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had no time for trivial things like feelings. And John's reaction was lost to him anyway. He was fantastic at deductive reasoning but terrible at interpreting human emotions. They were so unnecessary. And yet he had felt stronger feelings towards John then he had ever felt. He wasn't sure what kind of feelings they were but he knew they were there.

Why does he do this? Sherlock thought Was I not caring enough when he came back? I made my own tea.

Sherlock put down his violin and picked up his gun. It needed cleaning and he was tired of playing Bach. So bored.

Sherlock decided to talk to John. Since he'd come back from the dead and John was pushed down the stairs Sherlock thought it was time for a little sensitivity. Though that hadn't been his strong suit... No matter. He was determined to try. For his friend.

...

Sherlock walked into John’s room but didn't say anything at first.

John turned to look at Sherlock. "Can I help you?"

Sherlock said nothing but began deciphering every inch of John. The bags under his eyes and his unkempt hair showed that he hadn't slept well or bothered to fix his appearance for at least two days. His bed was unmade and his shoes and socks had been thrown towards the closet rather than put away neatly. His mind was on something else. Then there was the collar of his shirt.

"Stop doing that."

"Wha-"

"I know what you're doing Sherlock. You're trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. Just stop. I'm too tired for this."

John pulled his shirt off and threw it in the general direction of the hamper. It landed heavily next to his socks. His head dropped into his hands and he ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair. He hadn't gotten it cut in some time and it had grown almost to his ears.

"What do you want Sherlock?" He said with a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"Are... Are you alright?"

This caught John off guard. He said nothing and watched Sherlock staring at him waiting for an answer.

While looking at John, Sherlock suddenly realized he had taken his shirt off. His shoulders were broad and strong despite his short stature. His skin looked paler than normal and his shoulders were hunched, his head still in his hands.

"Do you really want to know or are you just trying to be nice?"

"Both."

John looked up at Sherlock and stood. Slowly he limped over until he was only a few feet away. Then his leg gave out.

"John!" Sherlock caught him before he hit the ground.

Sherlock let his knees hit the floor and stayed for a moment cradling John before standing again. He picked up his fragile friend and helped him onto the bed. His skin was warm and his hands were shaking. Like after his tour.

This leg is really messing up his mind. Thought Sherlock.

"Do you want to know what's wrong? Because I can tell you but I can't guarantee you'll like it."

"Tell me."

There was a moment of silence between them as John worked out how to explain to his best friend that in what he thought were his last moments of life... he thought of Sherlock. It made no sense really. I mean he was just his friend. Why didn't his life flash before his eyes? Why didn't he see his parents or sister? Why didn't he flash back to the war? There were so many things that he could have thought of... and yet... maybe it did make sense that he thought of Sherlock. His best friend, his confidant, the man who was there when he was lonely. It made complete sense that he would think of Sherlock. What didn't make sense washow he though of him.

"Do you remember the day I was... well... you know what I mean."

"Yes of course how could I not?"

"Well Sherlock... I... what I mean to say is... Well regular people do this... thing... when they think they are going to die. Your life flashed before your eyes."

"Yes I may not be perfect at understanding why humans think the way they do but I do know a bit about how."

"Alright well..." more silence

Why doesn't he just tell me? Sherlock thought. He stared intensely at John trying to figure it out to no avail.

"John?"

"Listen Sherlock... you know you're my best friend right?"

"Well yes you told me that. And honestly at first I never suspected given our difference in intellect that-"

"Shut up Sherlock."

Usually John just let him talk with a look of annoyance on his face. Sherlock knew John was annoyed by him sometimes but he often couldn't help it. Had he become too much to deal with for John? He hoped not. He didn't think he could bare it if John left him. Like he had left John...

"Sherlock."

"Huh? Oh yes sorry John."

"Listen. What I'm trying to say is... when I was falling down the stairs... Well instead of my life flashing before my eyes. Or my loved ones. I saw... well... you."

"Me?"

"Yes. Your face actually."

Sherlock didn't know what to do with this information. He was struggling to understand what John had meant by this confession. Sherlock was sure he would have seen John's face at some point in his death as well.

"Okay so what is the problem?"

"Well... Sherlock... why didn't I see my sister or Mary or..."

"Because like you said... I'm your best friend."

"Well yes... I mean... I don't..."

"It's okay John I would have seen your face at some point too."

"No Sherlock... I didn't just see your face... I saw your face."

"What?"

John felt his stomach getting heavy and he felt dizzy. Why was this so difficult to say? He looked up at Sherlock's eyes and saw them transforming into swirling green pools. Engulfing every inch of his body until everything went dark.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock ran to John - who was slumped on the floor - and shook him roughly.

"John!" he shouted "John wake up!" There was an unfamiliar tone in his voice. Fear? What am I afraid of?

John moaned in pain and attempted to push his body off the floor unsuccessfully. His arms gave way and his chest fell against the rough carpet. Sherlock reached for John's waist to lift him and felt a surge of electricity when his finger tips brushed John's hot skin. Wow. What was that?

"You're burning up John. You need medication. Let me help you onto the bed then I'll let Mrs. Hudson know you need medical attention."

John grunted and pushed himself up again - this time more successfully. "No Sherlock. I need to.. I mean I... you..."

The intricacies of Human emotion were ridiculous to Sherlock. Why wouldn't John say what he meant instead of expecting Sherlock to understand. This wasn't the first time this had happened, and Sherlock grew increasingly frustrated as well as weary.

"John I know my intellectual levels are higher than yours, but you cannot expect me to understand what you're thinking."

"God Sherlock... you're such a wanker."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in anger at the insult.

"Well if you don't want my help I have cases to look over."

John felt his heart threatening to rip out of his chest. He didn't want Sherlock to leave. He needed help. This wasn't what he wanted from their relationship... or maybe it was. He wanted happiness, but as of late he has been miserable. Sherlock has been out on cases without him since the accident, and John spends his time in his armchair staring at the bullet holes in the wall. Maybe he was just missing his best friend - not pining after him him.

"Sherlock..."

"Listen John, I know things have been difficult for you since you fell down the stairs-"

"I was pushed Sherlock."

"No matter. I'll try to be more sensitive to your emotions."

John Wanted to scream. His emotions were like waves. Ebbing and flowing between anger, and longing. Before his accident he noticed things about Sherlock like he did anyone else. But now... Now every detail was ingrained in his brain. The way Sherlock ruffled his hair while thinking - layers of dark brown ripples curling around his slender fingers. How he always took in the scent of his tea before sipping - allowing the steam to roll along the lines of his face. During his fall John truly saw Sherlock's face. Saw the beauty and strength in his features. Felt for the first time a warmth in his gut that he had never felt before.

Stop it John. Sherlock isn't... he Doesn't... Just stop.

Sherlock spun on his heels and left, leaving John panting on the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Months had passed since "the incident", and Sherlock had noticed a considerable difference in John. Instead of snide remarks, Sherlock was met with little more than a head nod or glance. John no longer marveled at Sherlock's superior cleverness and intellectual prowess on the job. At night John spent his time in his room rather than in front of the fireplace reading a paper. And worst of all John hadn't updated his blog in ages. How would the world hear about the amazing Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock had spent those months trying to preoccupy his time, and avoid thinking about what John had said. I didn't just see your face... I saw your face. What did it mean? And had Sherlock ever truly seen John's face? He spent much of his time looking at John more closely after that. Sherlock had even drugged John once so that he could examine him without interruption. Sherlock found a birthmark behind John's ear that he had never noticed before, and John lost a whole Tuesday without even noticing.

Tonight, Sherlock lay sprawled on the couch reading over a case. The fire behind him crackled and flowed, creating a wave of shadows in constant motion against the wall. It was the only light in the room; giving off a soft glow and warmth, and filling the flat with the smell of firewood. Sherlock sat up and gave a sidelong glance towards John - who was sitting in the living room at night for the first time in weeks - and became fixated on his face.

His jawline is more defined. He hasn't been eating much. This is most likely why his shirt hangs too loosely on his shoulders. His hair is shorter - meaning he has gotten it cut - but is in a constant state of dishevelment - indicating a lack of concern for appearance. He still smells good, so he hasn't lost his personal hygiene. In fact he smells fantastic. I can smell it from all the way over here. And the shirt looks quite nice on him. The lightness of his shirt matches his eyelashes, and I can see his collarbones through the thin fabric. I'd like to touch them.

"Sherlock." Sherlock jumped slightly and realized he had been staring for some time.

"Yes John?" He quickly began formulating a lie in his head.

"Why are you staring at me?"

Because you look unhappy. Because you spend most of your time in your room and this is unusual. Because I am calculating how much force it would take to crush your skull based on it's thickness and circumference.

Any of the answers in his mind would have worked perfectly.

"Because I enjoy looking at you."

Oh my god what did I just say.

John looked at him quizzically for a moment, then stood and walked towards Sherlock - his limp little more than a small bounce in his step now. Sherlock expected a punch to the jaw, but instead John slid his hand behind the back of Sherlock's neck - gently grabbing a fistful of curls.

"John what are y-"

Sherlock stopped abruptly as John leaned in and kissed the bridge of his nose. John paused a second, scanning Sherlock's face for any emotion other than surprise, and began kissing his face. He pressed his lips softly beneath Sherlock's eye, then planted a line of kisses down his cheek. His lips shook against Sherlock's skin when he reached Sherlock's neck. John kissed more deeply against the sweetness and allowed himself gentle sucks that left pink marks. Sherlock let out a sound that had never escaped his mouth before.

"John..." Sherlock was no stranger pleasure and feeling - he had been an addict for christ sake - but something about John's hair pressed against his cheek and lips pressed against his throat made ache.

John kissed one last spot by the neckline of Sherlock's shirt, and slid down to one knee, allowing his hand to release Sherlock's hair and land on the chair beside him. He dropped his head to Sherlock’s stomach. John was breathing heavily and his chest rose and fell against Sherlock's knee.

"I've always wanted to do that..." John said as he suddenly stood and walked off towards his room - leaving Sherlock stunned and the fire still crackling.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was not often caught off guard, but tonight his body had betrayed him. He couldn’t react to John’s lips against his skin - soft and hot - and once John had gone he stayed stiff as a board. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was unacquainted with this sort of thing, he and Janine had spent quite a few nights with intertwined limbs and thrusting hips. But that was for a case. Janine was an interchangeable piece in a board game that Sherlock had been playing, but John was so much more.

“Sherlock! Dear me what have you done with this place!” Mrs. Hudson looked disapprovingly on the wreck they called a flat. John’s hair was not the only thing disheveled by their issues.

“Oh Mrs. Hudson, why don’t you be a good landlord and hire us a cleaning service then?” 

She looked at him with the slightest tilt of her head at his broken tone. Sherlock had never thought of her as very smart, but she had a great eye for emotion.

“Now Sherlock, you and John really must work out whatever this is between you. He swears up and down that you two aren’t a couple, but the way he looks at you… Well I’d be surprised if you two haven’t been shacking up behind my back.”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Well now don’t get all coy Sherlock dear. Do you really think we can’t all see how you look at one another?” 

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond - which was becoming an annoying habit - so he just shook his head and relaxed his shoulders a bit. Maybe he was going about this all wrong? But Sherlock didn’t find himself wrong very often - at least in his own mind - so he may need some assistance.

“Thats all for now Mrs. Hudson.”

“Your welcome dear.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You didn’t need to.”


End file.
